A/N: There's an illustration for chapter one! Check it out at:

http:// daermi. deviantart. Com /art / The-Little-Ghostboy-Chpt-1-138828956

[remove the spaces]

And before you all start screaming at me that it looks nothing like Sam, go check out my character sheet for Sam in the same gallery. There's an rough example of Sam rendered in my style as she would be on the show, and how I would draw her as an adult. All I changed was her hair, and she looks radically different!

I don't know if I'll get to do any other illustrations for this story, and it looks like I'll probably have to start writing Foothold instead of drawing it, because my biofutures professor has suggested I take an idea I had for a sci-fi graphic novel and run with it for my final project as an example of biopower (biological politics) in literature! And, honestly, who would write a research paper when you can do part of a novel instead? :D Wish me luck! I still have to get final approval before I go ahead with it, but I figure I better start working on it now. I can write an 8-page final paper in a week if I have to, but drawing takes time.

Chapter Two: Empty Thrones

From all over the ghost zone they came: streaks of silver that shot through the milky green ever-twilight. The powerful, the weak, the ancient, the newly arrived, some of them solitary, and some in droves, all converging on a single location: the palace of the Ghost King.

Like it was carved from emerald, the palace rose from a floating island of stone, scintillating in the light of ectofire lanterns that glowed in every window and lit the way to the great doors. Innumerable spires and turrets rose from every corner and parapet, seeming to race each other for height, drawing one's eyes ever upward to the topmost towers which seemed to pin the very sky in place.

Security was tight, the ghosts noticed. For every lantern that hovered along the approach to the palace, there seemed to be a guard, imposing in their armor and full regalia, and the ghosts knew the pikes in their hands and blades that hung from their belts were not just there for ceremony.

Through the behemoth doorway the ghosts dove, like silvery moths into an open lantern. In a stream, they ascended, flying up over the useless Grand Staircase and through the doors of the throne room that lay at the top.

The great room was almost as wide as it was long, with massive gothic arches that soared above the gathering crowd. Beneath them, the floor was inlaid with an intricate arabesque of silver in jet. The front of the room was taken up by a black marble dais with several steps that led from the central aisle up to four thrones that sat at the top, two greater thrones flanked by two smaller ones, one of which was new. The wall behind them was draped in black silk, and behind the two great thrones hung shields: above the king's, a shield of orange and black, and above the queen's, a shield of blue and silver, each bearing their family's herald. Between them, and somewhat higher placed, hung a third shield of black and silver, with insignias from each of the shields below – the new herald that had been created upon the king and queen's marriage and coronation. In the domed space above the crowd hung a massive chandelier, but although the room was lit, the chandelier was not. Rather, the light seemed to be some quality of the air. The stone columns, the tile, even the light itself seemed to hang in some suspension of time, perfect in their condition, and yet seeming not quite real at all, not quite extant the way that stone or tile or light should be – deterioration, cracks, wavering, shadow.

Through the doors of the throne room, the court trumpeters filed in and separated, taking position along either side of the aisle, and there was a scurry in the air as late-comers scrambled to find and drop into the last remaining seats. Raising instruments carved from bone, the musicians sounded a bugle announcing the arrival of the court herald. From the entryway, the herald drifted upwards, almost to the ceiling, his voice rising to the arches before falling over the audience. "His Majesty, King Jack Phantom!"

To a royal refrain, the tall, pudgy king glided through the doors, dressed in mandarin colored silk robes with a black cape that rippled out behind him as he soared over the crowd and up to the chandelier, shooting an ectoplasmic ray from his scepter as he passed beneath it. The energy was caught in the crystals, and the chandelier bathed the room in light, a spray of sparks coruscating down over the audience before shimmering out above the ghosts' upturned eyes. To applause, King Phantom descended, settling into his throne on the dais with a comfortable authority that seemed at odds with his jolly figure.

"Her royal highness, Crown Princess Jasmine!"

In a black gown embroidered with silver, Jasmine entered, floating aloofly down the center aisle with a crown in her hands. But as she approached the dais, she gave her father a reassuring smile. She landed and curtsied deeply before her father, as etiquette required, then rose, placed the crown she carried on the queen's cushion, and took her own throne to the left of the queen's.

Her mother's throne would remain empty tonight, as it had for the last eighteen years.

Tradition stated that as the oldest child, and acting in her mother's place in assisting her father in the ruling of the kingdom, she should be sitting in the queen's throne to show that she represented the queen's will in matters. But Jasmine hadn't been able to bring herself to take her mother's place, even for the sake of ceremony, and she thought it would break her father's heart if she ever did. To take her mother's throne, even symbolically, seemed to be an admission that her mother was really gone. It had been an unspoken mutual agreement between herself and her father that she would never sit there, and when the smaller throne had appeared beside her mother's, she had understood without a word of explanation from her father that this throne was hers.

And tonight, to his father's right, Daniel would take his.

She wished she didn't have to keep up appearances. She would have liked to cross her fingers.

She had always felt the burden of her mother's absence. It hung over the castle like a dank silence that filled the moments that should have been filled by her voice or laughter, and put a haunted gleam in her father's eyes. Sometimes, in difficult moments, during meetings with his advisors or an audience with a member of the court, her father would fall silent, and she knew he was trying to imagine what her mother would have said in the situation.

Jasmine had set herself to take some of the burden from her father, and had studied diligently, taking her own throne almost two years early. By tradition, as the crown princess, she should have married, forging an alliance with an outlying kingdom or with one of the great families within their own. But Daniel had only been fourteen then, still four years from being coronated crown prince, and when she had declared that she would not marry, but remain as her mother's representative, she had seen her father's silent relief and no one had questioned her decision.

Even now, four years later, though her brother would finally be crowned, Jasmine had no intentions of departing for a marriage. She loved the daily challenge of running the kingdom, the politics, the economics, the upholding of the law and of order, and working beside her father. She couldn't imagine leaving to become a figure on some man's arm. She loved this land too much to step down. And her brother… just didn't seem to have the desire to rule, when it came down to it.

Not that he didn't apply himself to studying history, politics, and economics, all the things a future king should know. He just wasn't interested in the history, politics, or economics of here.

It was something her father knew peripherally. It had gotten her brother in trouble on more than one occasion. But she had never explained to her father just how deep her brother's fascination with the other world went. She didn't think her father would understand. Not when she couldn't either.

"And presenting the distinguished governor to the royal children, Sir Lancer!" the herald cried.

Floating through the doorway came a bald, goateed man, thin except for the heavy belly that drooped from his middle. Pale blue linen robes hung over his rotund form, with a mismatched gray plaid sash fastened with a buckle at the shoulder. With as much dignity as he could muster (and he thought he pulled it off rather well), Lancer bobbed down the aisle and bowed dramatically before the king, his naked scalp shining in the light from the chandelier above.

"Rise," King Phantom bid, "and join me." Lancer stood and came to hover at the king's right arm. In a lower tone, the king spoke, "Finally, the day is here! My son will take his throne. I want to thank you for your service over the years. I saw Daniel received very high scores in his tactical and swordsmanship."

"Yes, yes," Lancer replied. "He is an excellent fighter." If only he would show up to his history lessons once in a while, the governor thought to himself. He only barely passed that.

The bugles sounded again, and the herald proclaimed, "All rise for his highness, Prince Daniel!"

The trumpeters sounded a triumphant phrase, and there was a shuffle as the crowd rose from their seats, the king and princess included, looking to the door in anticipation where the prince…

…didn't enter.

The musicians' refrain stuttered and died in confusion, and the herald cleared his throat to try again. "His highness, Prince Daniel!" he shouted louder. The instruments sounded again… but no one appeared.

The herald dropped from the ceiling and ducked through the throne room doors as the crowd erupted in whispers. What was going on? Where was the prince? they hissed to each other. Presently, the herald reappeared in the doorway and hesitated there nervously. The king glared at him for an explanation, and the poor herald shrugged helplessly, trying not to wince.

Jasmine clutched the arms of her throne with white knuckles to keep herself from burying her face in her hands.

Her brother wasn't there.

Jack rose into the air, his fists clenched in anger, and his voice shook the very recesses of the great room. "DANIEL PHANTOM!"

A/N: Please review!